


Shercago

by TheSavageGod



Category: Chicago (2002), Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Comedy, M/M, Musical, Stockings, corsets, crackfic, men of Sherlock in corsets, sex will come later
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-20
Updated: 2014-01-27
Packaged: 2018-01-09 10:35:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,386
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1144952
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSavageGod/pseuds/TheSavageGod
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The cast of Sherlock in the musical Chicago. Murder, adultery, sex, politics. John Watson as Roxie Hart. Sherlock Holmes as Velma Kelly. Crackfic. Going to raise the rating once I put some PWP chapters in there.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. All That Jazz

**Author's Note:**

> Sherlock in the musical Chicago. Yeah. Crackfic. FUCKYEAH.

Molly’s heels cracked against the worn wood of the stuffed speakeasy. Each strike cut through the dark din, oozing confidence and power. The harsh lights came on, illuminating the club beyond the warm fires of the mens’ cigarettes. Molly’s skin shown pearl, blown out to make her brown eyes and her rouged lips stark. An easy smile spread across her face. Behind her sat shifting musicians, adjusting notes and sharing hushed laughs. Dancers lounged across the stage.

“Welcome. Gentlemen, you are about to see a story of murder, greed, corruption, violence, exploitation, adultery, and treachery,” Molly’s smile grew wicked as her hands roamed from her bare shoulders, across her breasts, puffing from the corset, across the thin sequins of her flapper dress, to rest on her hips. “All those things we all hold near and dear to our hearts.”

A few whistles and claps came from the audience.

“Though, I don’t think you’re here to see _me_ are you…” The cheers grew louder as Molly rushed to the piano.

A/N: Cue All that Jazz: <http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pNFryicvxeE>

“5, 6, 7, 8,” Molly’s hands pranced over familiar keys, horns blaring on a new jazzy favorite come in from the Holmes brothers.

The air was thick under the stage, cigarette smoke and dust making it even denser than the sweat upstairs.

“Has anybody seen the Holmes brothers?”  The stage manager said around the cue music. He found Danny the Diddler. “Danny, you’re up in 5.”

The icy Chicago air sucked out the heat in momentary relief when Sherlock rushed through the back stage door, hands hidden under his rabbit skin coat. The stage manager rushed over

“Where the hell have you been? And where is Mycroft?”

“He isn’t himself tonight” Sherlock brushed past the manager and headed towards his dressing room.

“But tonight’s your brother’s act.”

“Don’t sweat it. I can do it alone.” He said with easy coolness as his dressing room door slammed. By the music upstairs he’d have 20 more seconds before he would miss the lift up. Enough time.

He deftly scrubbed the last of the blood off his hands. 15.

Shirt, trousers, undergarments off, 13.

Fishnets, arms, legs. 10.

Corset, tight, bloody thing. Dress. 7.

Knickers, heels. 5.

Rouge. That would have to be enough tonight. Shame. 3.

“Move it! Move it! Hurry Up!” The Stage manager hissed as Sherlock rushed through the crowded acts, comedians, queens, and stage hands to make it just in time to catch the lift, the staccato of the trumpets cuing him up. He took his position, looking down.

“Gents, the Doyle’s Club is proud to present Chicago’s hottest show in the world. Two jazz hunks moving as one. The Holmes brothers!”

Molly’s voice couldn’t impede the rush of the stage, coursing through his blood as the warmth of the lights fell upon him. The music softened, just for him. He didn’t even have to open his eyes. He could feel it. The power to move a room.

“Come on babe why don’t we paint the town,” he cast his eyes up to the men of the room.

“And all that jazz

I’m gonna rouge my knees

And roll my stockings down”

He nodded the daft light over his direction. He strutted onto the piano.

“And all that Jazz.

Start the car

I know a whoopee spot

Where the gin is cold

But the piano’s hot

It’s just a noisy hall

Where there’s a nightly brawl

And all” he fell to his knees,

“That,” spread his legs,

“Jazz,” he let the note hang in the air as her dipped into his legs further to give them a peek.

Rolling across the piano, Molly shot Sherlock a quizzical look.

He winked.

Stretching himself across the piano, he breathed “And all that Jazz.”

“Hotcha! Woopee!” The dancers called back, as they began moving across the stage, limbs twisting and untwisting in embrace. Sherlock curled himself to the edge of the piano, arms and legs stretching elegantly in the air before settling around a seated dancer.

“And all that Jazz,” he purred.

The stage began moving quicker, dancers moving up and down the chairs and tables on the stage, pressing against each other, while popping each intonation of the drums with a “Ha!”

“Slick your hair

And wear your buckle shoes,” Sherlock ran his long fingers through the nearest dancer’s hair, sitting and smoking a drag.

“And all that Jazz.

I head that father dip

Is gonna blow the blues,” He pulled the man by his hair to eye level, kissing him and sucking the smoke out of his mouth. The audience reeled with cheers and cat-calls.

“And all that Jazz,” He moved upstage facing stage right as two male dancers moved to flank him. Whistles came from the audience as the air began feeling electric.

“Hold on, Hon

We’re gonna bunny hug

I bought some Aspririn

Down at United Drug

In case you shake apart

And want a brand new start

To Do –“

He turned away from the audience. He could feel the searing stares at his ass.

“That”

He turned back, smiling wickedly.

“Jazz!” He belted into the hall. From where he looked, he swore he saw a man leaning against a pillar, mouthing “jazz” with him. Men and women want to fuck him, men and women want to be him. The power was bubbling through his chest, making his fingers quake. He was a God here, and everywhere.

“Let’s go John,” Magnussen grabbed John's hand, turning him away from the stage.

“But I didn’t meet your friend, the manager here?” John stammered.

“Don’t worry John. It’s all taken care of,” Magnussen wrapped an arm around John’s shoulders.

“You told him about me?”

“Yes, my Englishman, it’s all arranged,” Magnussen emphasized by grabbing John’s ass as they walked into the frigid Chicago air.

“Find a flask

We’re playing fast and loose”

Sherlock’s hips sashayed across the stage.

“And all that jazz.

Right up here

Is where I store the juice”

Hoots hollers came from the audience as he gyrated his ass, sequins catching the light.

“And all that jazz.”

Two dancers picked Sherlock up so that he was sitting on their shoulders.

“Come on, babe

We’re gonna brush the sky

I betcha lucky Lindy

Never flew so high.

Cause in the stratosphere

How could he lend an ear

To all”

He flipped down into the stronger dancer’s arms.

“That”

Twisted onto his feet.

“Jazz”

As he sunk into the splits, trailing his hands down the dancer’s front, appreciating his chest.

“Oh, you’re gonna see your sheba

Shimmy shake

And all that jazz.”

Magnussen pressed John against the door of his building, lips demanding against John’s whiskey flavored tongue.

“Oh, she’s gonna shimmy till her garters

Break

And all that Jazz.”

John tripped on the carpeted winding stairs, taking Magnussen down with him. Magnussen’s whiskers scratched deliciously against his face, his need already pressing against his thigh.

“Show her where to park her girdle

Oh, her mother’s blood’d curdle”

Magnussen pulled John back up as they shuffled messily up the steps.

“If she’d hear

Her baby’s queer

For All”

He slammed John against the door and pressed himself against him. He captured the Englishman’s lips and ran his hands up his chest greedily.

“That”

Until the neighbor opened what he had sworn was John’s door.

“Jazz”

“Uh, Hello Mrs. Borusewicz” said John.

“Mr. Watson,” She said indignantly.

“This is Charles. He’s my… brother.” Watson giggled to Magnussen as he dragged the man to his door.

“All”

Sherlock wrapped an arm around a dancer.

“That”

The other arm.

“Jazz” and pushed the dancer to his knees.

“Come on, babe

Why don’t we paint

The town?

And all that Jazz.”

Magnussen pushed John onto the bed.

“I’m gonna

Rouge my knees

And roll my stockings down.

And all that jazz.”

John’s shirt was off and his pants were coming off fast.

“Start the car

I know a whoopee spot”

John looked up at the naked glory of Magnussen. Somehow lubed fingers were already in him.

“Where the gin is cold

But the piano’s hot”

His legs were hitched over Magnussen’s shoulders, open. He felt the pressure and burn as Magnussen’s cock slid in.

“It’s just a noisy hall

Where there’s a nightly brawl

And all”

“Oh John,” Magnussen bent down and buried his head into John’s neck.

“That”

Magnussen thrust, fully seated, knocking John and Greg’s wedding picture off the mantle.

“Say it again Charles,” John moaned.

“You’re a star, John,” Mangussen thrusted again, finding a rhythm. “My little shooting star.”

The dancers on the piano pulled Sherlock up. He turned and faced the audience. Adrenaline was coursing through him. Every person in the room was his.

“Oh, I’m no one’s wife but

Oh, love my life

And All”

The dancers lifted him down to the stage.

“That”

He stepped in time with the dancers, moving up stage. He could see the police filing in. He let his full power go, flexing it through his voice, one last time.

“Jazz

 That Jazz”


	2. Funny Honey

John’s seed spilled generously over his hands and chest, his muscles spasming around Magnussen’s cock. Magnussen rocked into John’s pliant body and shot inside him, moaning with each twitch of his cock.

“Oh… say it again Charles,” John breathlessly moaned under Magnussen. The apartment was dark, the sounds of the bedsprings slowing.

Magnussen stilled. He threw back the covers and got up suddenly, his cock slipping out of John unceremoniously.

“Hey! Where’s the fire?” John scooted sorely to the side of the bed. Magnussen was already pulling on his boxers. “Greg doesn’t get back until midnight.”

Magnussen walked to the loo.

“Charles? Charles.”

Magnussen ignored him. John hung his head and let out a sigh, getting up, turning on a lamp, and grabbing a wash cloth to wipe himself off. He found his boxers from not an hour before and slipped them on. He looked in the mirror and straightened them, so that he looked a little less fucked.

“Charles, I hope you don’t think I’m nagging, but don’t you think it’s about time for me to meet your friend at the Doyle’s Club?”

Magnussen flushed the toilet.

“It’s been a month since you told him about me, and I know. That was the night Sherlock Holmes plugged his girlfriend and his brother.”

Magnussen was quiet as he washed his hands. John was starting to feel put off.

“You know, they say she found them in a kit together. Well, if I ever found Greg slipping it to somebody else, boy, I’d throw him a party: a great, big going-away party,” John smiled to himself. Magnussen slipped out of the restroom.

“It is getting late, John,” Magnussen said stiffly, putting on his slacks.

“You know, I have been thinking about my act. Whenever I get a great idea I write it down in my journal so I don’t forget it,” John started, slipping behind Magnussen as he was putting on his shoes, peppering kisses on his shoulders. “And it occurred to me, that the really knockout acts have, you know, something a little different. Like, you know, um… a signature bit.”

John ran his hands down Magnussen’s arm, his smile excited.

“And I thought, I thought my thing could be… aloof, you know?” His smile devilish. “Give them enough just to get them good and hungry, but always leave them wanting more.”

Magnussen got to his feet to find his shirt. John’s smile fell as he padded over to him.

“And you know, once I get a name for myself, well then maybe we could have a club of our own, you know?” Jon’s hands were running against Magnussen’s chest in an attempt to get his attention and impeded his dressing. “You could run it, and I could be the headliner.”

“Get off” Magnussen sternly pushed John back.

“Excuse me?”

“Wake up my little Englishman,” His voice calm, eyes piercing John’s. “You’re never going to have an act.”

Magnussen calmly walked over to the mirror to put on his tie. John’s mouth hung open.

“Says who?”

Magnussen chuckled to himself, gazing back at John.

“Face it John, you’re a two-bit talent with skinny legs, and I… am a newspaper salesman.”

John’s face was getting hot. He approached Magnussen.

“Yeah, but you have connections, you know, the guy down at the club-“

“There is no guy,” Magnussen said inconsequentially.

“That night-“

“Was the first time I stepped foot in that club. I was calling in a favor from the trombone player.”

John’s heart sank.

“So you never told anyone about me?”

“My Englishman,” Magnussen turned. “You’re hot stuff. I would’ve said anything to get a taste.”

John squeaked when Magnussen grabbed his ass. He was swimming in anger, sadness, and betrayal.

“And now..?”

“We’ve had our laughs John; let’s just leave it at that.” Magnussen went to find his coat. John paused, his chest tight, hot tears stinging his eyes.

“Charles… Charles you can’t do this to me…” his voice cracking.

“I already have John Watson.” Magnussen grabbed his coat and returned to John. “You know the best thing about you Englishmen? You’re so domesticated.”

His face was inches away from John’s.

“I’ve broken your heart, insulted you, and you haven’t done anything. A race of herbivores.”

He raised his hand started flicking John’s red face, causing tears to escape his eyes.

“Stop me John.”

John closed his eyes and clenched his hands into fists, embarrassment and shame adding pressure to the emotional overflow.

“I didn’t think so.”

Magnussen started towards the door, pulling his coat over his shoulders.

“Your husband will be home soon. Why don’t you wash yourself before you go hitting those sheets again?”

“You’re a liar, Charles.” John’s voice was hoarse with emotion and tears. His hands searched the dresser, his eyes failing him. “You _lied_ to me.”

“Men lie, John” Magnussen said, opening the bedroom door. John’s hands fumbled through his dresser drawer.

“You’re a son of a bitch!” John’s voice cut through the room, causing Magnussen to turn in time to catch the first gunshot.

“You’re a son of a bitch!” His voice was shrill as he spat the words out. Two more shots as Magnussen fell to the floor.

John lowered the gun, his face twisted with anger and tears.

“You’re a son of a bitch.”

After a few moments John’s breathing slowed. He lowered the gun.

His eyes caught himself in the mirror, tear streaked, in his boxers, with his gun in his hand. His eyes widened.

And reality hit him, cold and hard.

-

The camera flashed across Magnussen’s body.

“Why you botherin’ Sal? This one’s all wrapped up,” The policeman with the camera stepped over the body to get another angle by the bed. “It’s a new city record: from killin’ to confession in an hour flat.”

“And where did you get the murder weapon?” The policeman was taking notes in a tiny used notepad. Lestrade was leaning against the tiny dining table, the cramped apartment leaving little room for an eating area.

“I keep the gun in the underwear drawer, just in case of trouble, you know?” Lestrade told the local cop. John was slinking behind him in his dressing robe.

“Well that’s just fine. Just sign right there Mr. Lestrade,” said the policeman, handing the confession to Lestrade to sign.

“Freely and gladly,” Lestrade took the pen and quickly signed his name. “Freely and gladly.”

“And mind you don’t say we beat it out of you on the witness stand.”

“No I gave myself up, surrendered of my own free will,” Lestrade gave the pen and paper back to the policeman. “Plus, I can’t be tarnishing the department’s reputation.”

“Isn’t he the cheerful murderer?” a man said as he entered the apartment, trench coat swirling around him. Once he removed his hat, John could see his ears were pink from the outside air.

“Hey Fogarty,” waived Lestrade with a weak smile. “I forgot it was your shift tonight.”

Detective Fogarty. They’d had him over  for dinner once, a year back. How could he forget him?

“Shooting a burglar isn’t murder,” John Watson began. “Just last week a jury thanked a man.”

“I’m always grateful for citizens who know the law,” Fogarty replied dryly. He grabbed Lestrade’s arm and led him towards the bedroom. “Get in there. You too Watson.”

The couple stepped gingerly over the body lying across the bedroom doorway.

“Sit down.” Fogarty ordered. Lestrade sat down on the bed, John taking to the back corner, pacing slightly. Fogarty took out his flashlight, shining it down upon Lestrade’s face.

“Alright Fogarty, don’t need to blind me t—“

 “From the top, Lestrade.”

Lestrade paused to wet his lips, taking a breath.

“Well, a man’s got the right to protect his home and his loved ones, right?”

“’Course he has.”

“Well, I come home from precinct and I see him climbing through the window.”

“Uh huh”

“With the wifey,” Lestrade caught himself. “Um, well, with John sleeping there, sleeping… soundly.”

Fogarty turned his flashlight to John, John grimacing. “Is that true Mr. Watson?”

Lestrade started, “I’m telling you, Fogarty, it’s the God’s honest truth, John had nothing to do with it. Look at him, he couldn’t hurt a worm!”

Molly nodded towards the band as they sunk into an easy tempo, oboe playing sweetly.

Lestrade continued, trying to keep Fogarty’s attention as he focused in on John, eyes squinting against the light. “It wasn’t until I fired the first shot that John even opened his eyes.”

John turned away from the weight of the flashlight.

“Boy, he’s some heavy sleeper. I always said, he could sleep through the Saint Patty’s Day Parade. When I think of what would’ve happened if I’d gone out for a beer with the guys ‘stead of coming straight home, well, makes you sick even thinking about it.”

John turned to face the spotlight, feeling the piano next to him. There were a few whistles from the audience. The tune was familiar, making him want to sway his hips.

A/N: Cue Funny Honey : <http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ATu3mTqf0sU>

Molly continued playing, her voice sultry, “For his first number, Mr. John Watson would like to sing a song of love and devotion dedicated to her dear husband, Greg Lestrade.”

“Sometimes I’m right

Sometimes I’m wrong”

The spotlight grew to light the rest of his body, in a sheer wrap dress, two slits down the front to reveal legs wrapped in white lace stockings and a matching garter.

“But he doesn’t care

He’ll string along.”

His hands moved lazily down his chest.

“He loves me so

That funny honey of mine.”

He turned slowly away from the audience, letting them get a peak at the lace thong through the almost-sheer fabric. Whistles caused John to smile to himself.

“Sometimes I’m down

Sometimes I’m up.

But he follows ‘round

Like some droopy-eyed pup.”

John walked slowly behind the piano, climbing the steps leading to the top of the instrument. He bent over the top of the piano, feeling the warm wood against his face. It felt so good, relaxing to be on stage again. He felt so intoxicated, so sexy.

“He loves me so

That funny honey of mine.”

“Like I said, after I shot him, he kept coming at me, so I had to pull the trigger again.”Lestrade explained to Fogarty and his flashlight.

John slid to sit on the piano, taking the opportunity to show off his legs.

“He ain’t no sheik

That’s no great physique

And Lord knows he ain’t got the smarts

But look at that soul

I tell you, that whole

Is a whole lot greater than the some of his parts”

John slid so that his curvy legs were crossed in front of the piano, glancing at Molly, and resting his foot on the piano cover above the keys. Cat calls came from the audience

“And if you knew him like me”

He slid one high-heeled foot under Molly’s chin to lift her eyes to his. Her fingers deftly flicked across the piano.

“I know you’d agree.”

Watson slid down to lie on the piano.

“What if the world

Slandered my name?

Why he’d be right there

Taking the blame”

John slid his legs under him, generous amounts of leg slipping out of the slits as the dress pooled around him. He sat up, running a hand up his chest. He felt so glamorous and sexual, basking in the spotlight’s glow.

“He loves me so

And it all suits me fine

That funny, sunny, honey

Hubby of mine..”

“I mean, just suppose, just suppose he had violated him or something. You know what I mean, violated?” Lestrade began.

“I know what you mean,” Fogarty said with a roll of his eyes.

“Think how terrible that would’ve been. It’s a good thing I got home from work on time.”

“He loves me so” John lay down and arched his back.

“I’m tellin’ you that, Fogarty”

“That funny honey of mine.” John moved his hands down his chest and across his legs.

“Name of deceased: Charles Augustus Magnussen,” Fogarty read.

“Charles Magnussen? How could he be a burglar? John knows him, he’s from the paper…” Lestrade began. He paused, looking at John, gears turning. “He gives us 10% off the Sunday.”

“Lord knows he ain’t got the smarts” John shot a glare at his husband.

“You told me he was a burglar,” Lestrade said to him.

“You mean he was dead when you got home?” Fogarty asked Lestrade.

“Jeez, I’m covering, and he’s telling me some cock and bull story about this burglar and how I should say I did it because I was sure to get off. ‘Help me Greg,’ he said. ‘It’s my God damn hour of need.’”

John sat straight up.

“Now he shot off his trap

I can’t stand that sap.

Look at him go”

“And I believed him”

“ _Ratting_ on me!”

“That cheap little tramp,

So he’s two-timing me, huh?”

“With just one more brain

What a half-wit he’d be”

“I’m through protecting him now,

He can swing for all I care.”

“If they sting me up,”

“Boy I’m down at the precinct

Working my ass off fourteen hours a day”

“Well I know who bought the twine!”

“While he’s up there munching on bon-bons

And tramping around like some God damn floozy?!”

John was shaking with fury, standing an imposing 11 feet tall on top of the piano (plus heels).

“Thought she could pull the wool over my eyes, huh?”

“That scummy,” the piano jammed out of tune as John stepped one foot down on the keys.

“Well I wasn’t born yesterday.”

“Crummy” another crash of sour notes as the other foot came down, Molly’s fingers moving frenetically to play around them.

“I tell you there’s some things that a man just can’t take.”

“Dummy!” John put one foot on Molly’s shoulder, Molly shooting him a glare.

“And this time he pushed me too far.”

“Hubby of mine!” John belted through the hall.

“Boy, what a sap I was!” Lestrade shouted. John ran and pushed him off the bed down to the floor.

“You double-crosser! You big blabber mouth! You promised you’d stick!” John shouted at him.

“What are you talking about John?” Lestrade shouted while getting up. “You’ve been stringing me John! You told he was a burglar!”

“Shut up God damn it!” John shouted back. “ _You_ are a disloyal husband!”

Lestrade gave him an incredulous look and walked out of the bedroom.

John turned to Fogarty, hand covering his mouth to gather his thoughts before pleading to him.

“Look, it’s true, I shot him, but it was self-defense, he was trying to burgle me.”

“From what I hear, he’s been burgling you three times a week for the last month.”

A policeman motioned to Fogarty from the bedroom doorway, Mrs. Borusewicz entering with him. The policeman flipped the sheet off of Magnussen’s white face.

“That’s him alright,” she told them.

“Thank you,” Fogarty said to Mrs. Borusewicz. He turned to John. “Your story doesn’t wash out Mr. Watson, but try this on for size: Charles Augustus Magnussen was a good time on the side with goofy here as a meal ticket.”

“Meal ticket?” John asked, exasperated, motioning to Lestrade. “He couldn’t even buy my liquor.”

“And Charles Magnussen could? With a wife and 5 little Magnussens? Or did he forget to mention that?” Fogarty handed John Magnussen’s wallet, filled with pictures of a stout German woman and 5 little smiling faces. John’s mouth moved up and down, looking back and forth through the pictures.

“Wh…What?” John managed to ask.

“All his.”

John started breathing heavily.

“That bastard,” he said under his breath, hands shaking

“That bastard!” he shrieked, throwing the wallet across the room. He turned to Fogarty, furious. “I killed him, and I would kill him again!”

“Once is enough Johnny.” Fogarty shoved John into the living area. “Take him downtown!”

The police grabbed John by the arms and cuffed him, dragging him down the winding stairway of his building. Out waiting for him in the icy Chicago air were photographers, already taking pictures of their approach.

The flashes blinded John. Stumbling, he moved  his hands up to shield his face from the intrusive lights.

“This way honey,” One of them shouted. “Aw, c’mon. It’s such a shame to hide a pretty face.”

“Take it while you can,” Fogarty said to the men. “Assistant District Attorney Harrison says this is a hanging case.”

His shins nearly caught the edge of the paddy wagon when they shoved him into the back.

_Hanging_?John scrambled back to the barred windows of the car.

“Wait a minute, hanging?”

Fogarty smirked at him, “They’re ready to go to the jury tomorrow.”

John sputtered. “What do you mean hanging?”

“Not so tough anymore, are you?” Fogarty motioned to the driver. “Take him down to the Cook County jail.”

A reporter stepped up to the back of the car.

“C’mon sweetie, what’s the headline? Was he cruel to you? Did he beat ya? Why’d you shoot him?”

The car started up, Fogarty’s figure starting to move away.

“Hey. Hey!” John hit the car door to get Fogarty’s attention. “What do you mean, hanging?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have to admit, writing any love scenes between Magnussen and John is kind of strange... and kind of fun. It’s not my ship, I swear, but I would recommend writing for Magnussen. Or abusing John and having him get angry.

**Author's Note:**

> Alright, I have seen the movie, and I did look over the original script of Chicago. I drew more from the movie because it does give more character development for me to go on besides the “No one walks out on me” line from Roxie (yes, Chicago devotees, I understand that that line in itself describes her character, but it does not lend itself to John’s character).


End file.
